1830 sunrise

Pale lines of south-stacked wooden trunks

Soften ancient village stone

Where once the powder of destruction

Overnighted, dry, in locked Saltpetre Shed

And as the sunrise called to sleepy boatmen

Roused to disgorge coal and fill the holds of narrow boats

Long with loads of that which, alone save gods, could rend the stone apart

Now gone, where peaceful grass, and pond, alone, fills the once watery Wharf

That, then, contained the many voices laughing

The sunken ghosts of eighteen thirty’s wakening eyes.

(c)Copyright Stephen Tanham, 2016.


6 Comments Add yours

  1. Beautiful poem, Steve. A wistful and quiet read 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    1. stevetanham says:

      Thank you, Diana. And the ‘Saltpetre’ as the gunpowder store was (and is) called is at the end of our garden, half of which is the old canal basin – devoid of water since the late 1950s. We are fond of the piece of industrial history that surrounds us.

      Liked by 3 people

      1. rivrvlogr says:

        I enjoyed this, and your comment gives it added depth.

        Liked by 1 person

        1. stevetanham says:

          Thank you. A simple theme – the bottom of our garden, but seen in a new way this morning.

          Liked by 1 person

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